


Yellow Hat

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Gen, Prompt Fic, with apologies to Dr. Seuss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a clue. There's a lot of clues, actually. Written for JWP #22.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Hat

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This makes no sense whatsoever. Willful adaptation of a Seussian work with no justification and less talent. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.
> 
> JWP #22: A Seussian Situation. Incorporate Dr. Seuss or one of his works somehow into today's entry. A Cat in a Hat or 500 Hats? A Grinch or a Sneech? It's up to you!

_One clue, two clue, red clue, blue clue._  
 _Black clue, blue clue, old clue, new clue._  
 _This clue has a little star._  
 _I found this clue in a car._  
 _My! What a lot of clues there are._  
  
Sherlock sat forward in the visiting chair, hoping the mutter was a sign of John returning to consciousness. Nothing.  
  
 _Some are thin. Some are fat. The fat clue is a yellow hat._  
 _From there to here, from here to there, clueful things are everywhere._  
  
Was that a smile on John’s face? Sherlock decided he’d imagined it.  
  
 _There are clues that make us run._  
 _We run for clues in the hot, hot sun._  
  
An alarm sounded in another room.  
  
Sherlock picked up the damp sponge and continued the nurse’s hastily abandoned work. Primitive as it was, the cool cloth might help bring down John’s temperature.  
  
 _Where do clues come from? I can’t say._  
 _But Sherlock can, if you ask the right way._  
  
Sherlock paused in texting Lestrade and looked over at the bed. Was that his name? He almost dismissed it as wishful thinking, but then John’s eyes fluttered open.  
  
“Sh-Sherlock?”  
  
“John!” Sherlock bounded over, pressing the call button as he had promised to do. “Can you remember anything?”  
  
John blinked, hazy, brightly-colored memories flitting through his mind.  “J-just ddddrrreaming,” he slurred, then added: “Bad.”


End file.
